


rose

by QWERTYouAndMe (orphan_account)



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Gen, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:21:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24252745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/QWERTYouAndMe
Summary: poemtrie...
Kudos: 1





	rose

**Author's Note:**

> fun fax:  
> this poem is only 6 sentences. no really.  
> i wrote it in a maths lesson almost entirely  
> it's shit  
> aaaaa aa a

Rose

Rose is not a fan of shirts or ties or suits or lace-up boots: 

Rose is not too keen upon conformity nor order, 

Rose is not a flower nor a fighter nor a soldier: 

Rose is not forever, Rose is tip-toes, tense and pressed,

Rose is waiting rooms and rusty spoons and holding your breath 

in the back of a police car in case they 

ask your name and home address—

Rose is needles, ink and paper, 

biting on towels and staying up later, 

listening to GaGa and playing minesweeper—

They’re tally marks and gay bars and long baths and knife scars, 

they're TV fights and UV lights 

and not quite made of dynamite; 

a bunch of flowers, early hours, 

red walls and food halls, curealls for something small, 

a cup of convenience store noodles with the steam rising up in your face—

an escape:

a body high, a sleepy sigh—my kind of guy, is Rose.

  
  


They're tattoos and 'fuck you's and cheap booze and trees, 

they're bright pills and oil spills and 'smoking kills' 

and 'this is going to hurt, 

but once it kicks in it'll be worth it, 

trust me,'—

they're red wine and confines

of rope knots and cheap pot, 

they're rain clouds on paper tabs 

and situations, superman, 

they're laughing fits and bong hits and massive tits 

—but not that last bit—

they are pipes and screws and bolts, 

and open arms and knowing faults 

and locking more than cash in vaults: 

Rose is early morning texts 

and groceries 

and what comes next, 

Rose is waking after dark and drinking whiskey with the larks, 

Rose will hurt you, 

Rose will burn, 

Rose will prick you; 

tables turned, Rose will love you, warts and all; 

their guns are mounted on the wall—

they're gas masks and face facts and last laughs and thumbtacks, 

they're numbers and clovers and unders and overs; 

they're inside or outside or midway in the rain, 

they're backs of vans and sweaty hands and 'see you in 15'; 

they're drunk texts and good sex 

and rhythm, beat, and rhyme, 

they're numbers scrawled on toilet doors 'if you want a good time'; 

they're opposite, ostracised, 

they're truth and gentle lie, 

and they're my kind of guy, is Rose.

  
  


They're vantablack and multipack and gut-wrenching emotion, 

they're paint cans and white vans 

and honour and devotion, 

they're fingernails and pigtails and bus shelters and dreams, 

they're drag queen and Listerine 

and wind turbines on hills, 

they're street signs and 'I'm fine'

and alleyways and soot,

they're frying pans and soda cans and garbage day and love; 

they're frilly skirts and dress shirts 

and painkillers and sweat, 

they're drugs tests and horse bets 

and men in bulletproof vests; 

they're black jeans and sunscreen and ukulele strumming, 

they're bowties and brown eyes and absentminded humming—

they're crooked smiles and staplers 

and paperweights and moss, 

they're retweets and upvotes and the gentle ache of loss; 

Rose is silver, bronze, and gold, 

growing up and growing old, 

circles traced on sleeping backs, 

tennis balls and cricket bats; 

baby bottles, picture frames, feather dusters, diamond rings; 

lava lamps and fishnet tights, 

storybooks and alley fights, 

water bottles, orange hair, rocking chairs and paper tears; 

they're chests of drawers and radiators, 

passive protests, instigators; 

they're rash, unsightly, rude, and mean; 

Charlie, Cloud 9, snow, and speed; 

shaky hands and high-heeled shoes, a broken nail, 

a clever ruse; 

they're dressing gowns and chicken stock,

a snowy owl, a ticking clock,

they're quizzical, invisible, they're 'do you have the time?' and they're my kind of guy, is Rose.

  
  


They're Montague and Capulet and ceiling fans and swords, 

they're lightbulbs and fire escapes 

and warm bread rolls and soup—

they're almond milk and coffee cups 

and badger sets and broken mugs; 

they're daffodils and climbing hills and algebra and sweat, 

they're chlorophyll and water bills and stamina and threats; 

they're bloodsport and unsure 

and flagpoles and unknown, 

they're spider webs and boiled eggs 

and loose threads and clothes pegs; 

they're mystery and misery and clocks in hot exam halls, 

they're jewellery and thievery and tryhards and know-it-alls; 

they're dozens and grosses — fractured and broken, 

they're Christmas, they're listless, they're waiting and hoping—

they're bottles made of greenish glass 

and lazy lounging on your arse, 

they're racing hearts and shaky hands and loving hard and losing fast—

Rose is weekend nights alone and taking pictures on your phone, 

Rose is endless droning rain 

and faking smiles and hiding pain; 

they're leaves on trees and wheels on cars 

and sticky tops 

of shitty bars, 

they're cracking joints and crunching bones 

and stretching legs and curling toes; 

they're hurricane and butterfly, 

both teacup and the storm, 

they're principle, municipal,

they're hessian and chloroform;

they're fairytales and teddy bears,

they're barley, wheat, and rye, 

and they're my kind of guy, is Rose.

  
  


They're in the air, 

beyond compare, 

the cheapest prices anywhere, 

they're yellow gold 

and yellow teeth 

and vomit on the toilet seat; 

they're being scared of snakes or clowns 

or being too scared to leave town, 

they're picking locks and dirty socks and 

thirty cellphones in a box, 

they're chalkboards and whiteboards and a soggy yellow pages, 

they're Shakespeare and sight-seer and analyse the ages; 

they're myriad and not bad, 

the extra chips at the bottom of the bag; 

they're an M1 Abrams and riofloxin, 

umbrellas and neurotoxins, 

endless shape and calculation, 

bound, eternal, to frustration—

football games and laptop screens, 

fireworks and children's' screams, 

they're splintered bones and fractured spines, 

they're us and me and yours and mine; 

Rose is lisps and squints and wheels, 

the comfort of 'I know the feel'—

they're joyous shouts and selfie pouts 

and cosine, 

tangent, 

sine, 

they're broken hearts and broken bones 

and orange, 

lemon, 

lime; 

Rose is heartbeat unified, 

Rose is fighting dignified; 

Rose is caring, kind and cold, 

Rose is sharp, giving out, bold; 

Rose is brick by boring brick, 

a house where we two both shall live; 

they're broken and cemented, 

conscience never once relented, 

their whole body reinvented by a shotgun to the chest—

but even as they lie down, bloodied, in their Sunday best, 

they won't give in or give up,

and even though they won't impress,

they will fight for their cause till the wind blows them west 

and they won't ever join the rest, 

won't Rose.


End file.
